Running short on time and high on nervous energy one morning last week, I realised that there was no way I'd be able to get downstairs, set up the ironing board, fill up the iron, wait for it to heat, press my ridiculously wrinkled camisole, and get across to my train on time. This was a top which looked like it'd been rolled up tightly and sat on by several herds of elephants in serious need of some Pig 2 Twig action. Wearing another top wasn't an option, getting a later train wasn't an option, and I was in need of a polished and professional look that I reckoned a camisole modelling itself on Gordon Ramsey's forehead wasn't quite going to deliver.
As the hysteria mounted and my heart contemplated stopping altogether, an idea that was nothing short of manic siezed me.
Once I'd finished straightening my hair with my Remington Shine Therapy straighteners, I pointed the plates towards my top and proceeded to, well, straighten it. While things could have gone horribly wrong at this point and I obviously wouldn't condone or encourage this kind of utter madness, I ended up with a top as well-conditioned as it was crease-free.
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Oh yes - and I made my train!
